


Ways to the Dungeon

by Silvermyr



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Gore, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvermyr/pseuds/Silvermyr
Summary: A novelization of the official comics for each character, detailing their backgrounds. These are the paths our "heroes" followed to end up battered and broken, fighting a war that is not theirs to fight. Some came for redemption. Some came for gold. Maybe a few poor souls even came to make the world a better place?No matter where they came from or why, they would all find their fates in the shadow of the Darkest Dungeon.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. What Dismas Did

The air smelled like rotting wood and leaves. The cold and wet water of the last weeks probably made it even worse. Or maybe not. It wasn’t like he knew what made something rot and die. Weather probably didn’t have shit to do with it… Dismas coughed and brushed his short, wet hair out of his eyes. Couldn’t afford to get distracted.

He sat hunched down at the side of the road behind a blackberry bush that still had most of its leaves. It was hours since he took up vigil, and it hadn’t stopped raining for a minute since. At this point, all his clothes were nearly soaked through, aside from a small packet which her held close to his stomach. He was freezing. Peeking out of the shrubbery revealed just the same wet dirt road as all the other times. She really ought to find some other hunting grounds. ”His” little stretch of woodland roads had seen less and less traffic, and the less traffic the larger portion of the travelers he had to hit. The more he had to hit the less appealing the road became to travel, further reducing his livelihood. 

He spat in annoyance and made a futile attempt to brush some of the water off his overcoat. Not that it mattered; it was already as wet as if he had thrown it in the river. Hopefully he’d get some wealthy transport soon… maybe he’d even have enough coin to spend a night in the tavern… That was a point in this wood’s favor- it was close to a shitty little tavern where the owner didn’t ask why on every morning he slept there, a carriage had gone missing. 

Just thinking of that place made him long for it. Pathetic, he knew, since that tavern was windy, dark and the prices outrageous. He smirked under his red neckerchief. That’s what constituted as luxury for him? Being swindled out of his earnings for a rickety bed, a miserly meal and a louse-infested whore for the night?

Yep, it sure was. 

There was a splash in the mud. 

Quick as a cat, Dismas peeked out behind the bush where he was huddled, every nerve tense as a bowstring. 

Some fifty meters away, a carriage approached. It had windows! He couldn’t make out any crest in the darkness, but if it had windows that meant it must belong to someone of wealth. He licked his lips under the neckerchief. This was his lucky night, he could feel. 

He stood up and removed the oilcloths from the package in his hands. The pistol was still perfectly dry. That was a trick he had learned long ago. It didn’t matter how wet he was as long as he kept the powder dry. 

He slipped out from behind the bush. 

Two drivers, and the light from inside the wagon revealed they had clothes rather than armor. This shouldn’t be too difficult… just let them get a little closer…

Closer…

He could hear the horses whinny. He cocked the pistol and reached for his dirk.

A little closer still… missing the first shot would cost him his nice evening at the tavern…

He lined up his shot. He wanted to hit the driver furthest away from him. Not only was he not holding the reins, meaning he might be a guard and thus had to be taken out fast, but he was also further from Dismas. Taking him down would save him valuable seconds to get to the other driver.

He could see the white in the horse’s eyes. 

Perfect. 

He leveled his pistol and as he took a deep breath, he fired. 

The sound of the gunshot slashed through the cold night like a knife, but he didn’t stop to listen. He had seen the first driver’s head jerk back in a way that he had seen hundreds of times before. He passed the pistol over to his left hand and rushed towards the carriage, dirk in his right hand. 

”What the fuck?!” The other driver shouted in shock and horror.

”Too slow, mate,” Dismas said, jumped up next to the driver, caught him by the hair and shoved the dirk into his throat. The blood gushed over his gloves, seeping through the seams. It felt hot and sticky on his hand. He grabbed the body, and hoisted it up on his shoulder while he reloaded his pistol. There might still be guards inside the carriage, after all. 

He went a little bit away from the carriage and threw the body down on the ground. He loosened the coin purse with nimble fingers. It was satisfyingly heavy. Not a bad start. He also had the other driver, and whatever valuables there was inside the carriage itself. A pity he couldn’t take the horses, but they’d be recognized if he tried to sell them and he didn’t know how to ride. Still, this had all the makings of a very profitable evening.

He caught a shadow in the carriage window in the corner of his eye.

He didn’t think. His hands were on the pistol before his mind had even registered the shadow’s form. He whirled around and fired. The bullet went straight through the glass with a deafening peal and the shadow slumped back.

”That’ll teach you to fuck with me,” Dismas spat. He reloaded the pistol and went up to the carriage. He’d rather not be surprised again and it wasn’t like the driver was going anywhere. 

He came up to the broken window. The smell of iron was heavy in his nose. He looked through the windows. 

A young woman stared back at him. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. She sat in a silken dress with laces. It had probably cost more than Dismas had ever owned. Just above her heart, the blood was already pooling on the dress… and on a tiny little head. 

Dismas started shaking. 

There, nestled up against her chest, laid a child. It had black, unruly hair, now matted through with blood and brains. 

His bullet had gone through the child’s head and struck the mother… a heart and a head. 

For a fleeting moment, her realized that it must have been the most fortunate shot he had ever landed. 

It had been the boy. He realized that now. The shadow in the window had been too small to be an adult man. It had been a boy who wanted to know if the coast was clear.

The vomit came suddenly. He caught it in his mouth before he slumped to the ground and emptied his stomach there under the wheels. 

He had killed before. Ample of times. In fact, the good days were the days when he killed, because those where the days he could walk into the tavern and feel like a king before passing out with a glass in one hand and a whore’s breast in the other.

But he never killed like this… these two wouldn’t have put up a fight. They’d have forked over everything they owned just from seeing his weapons. 

And that boy… shaking with dread, Dismas grabbed on to the empty window space and pulled himself up. The broken glass felt like nails in his palm, but he hardly registered the pain.

Mumbling a quick, broken and half-forgotten prayer to the Light, he forced himself to peek through the window again. 

The messy hair, the thin face, the short stature… even the eyes, Dismas realized. 

The boy was a splitting image of himself when he was young. 

That realization blasted through his body with the force of a lightning strike. He shoved himself from the window hard enough to fall backwards on his ass. He started crawling away. Shaking with barely restrained sobs, he rightened himself and began running. 

Running from the carriage. Running from his woodland.

He ran until his legs buckled under him and he slumped to the ground outside his trusty shithole of a tavern. But he couldn’t go in. He had forgotten to take any money, save for the small pouch. Besides… he couldn’t sit with normal people. He was a murderer.

He removed his gloves and rubbed the palms of his hands into the pile of leaves outside the tavern, hoping and praying that maybe he could clean away the blod of dozens of innocents he had killed. 

It didn’t work. He kept on trying, feeling tears well up in his eyes as he scrubbed even harder. He didn’t even care that he was bleeding. He should have stayed a candlemaker, like his mother said. But no, his dumb ass had to try and strike it rich by robbery. And now he was a murderer, the lowest, most disgusting scum of humanity.

”No more… no fucking more,” Dismas wept.

Perhaps the Light, or the Devil, was listening to him at that moment, for a piece of paper drifted in the wind.

Dismas grabbed it. He just barely knew how to read, but he did recognize one word: 

Mercenary. 

Most of the text almost ruined in the rain, but a curious little symbol still remained towards the bottom of the paper: a black arch, with five lines pointing inwards towards the center. Dismas recognized it as a crest of a noble family around these parts, even though it was years since last he waylaid a carriage of theirs. 

No matter. This lord needed mercenaries… and Dismas needed a course. Something to die for. Something to redeem him, just a little in his own eyes, before he ended up putting his own pistol to his temple.

He picked himself up and went inside the tavern. He needed to find out where this lord was now.


	2. Who Tardif Killed

Fuckers. 

All of them, fuckers. 

Tardif snorted behind his scale-helmet and tossed the street urchin a silver coin, like he had promised. The ragged, dirty boy dashed away on quick feet, not wanting to stay near the masked man with an axe in his belt and a grappling hook over his shoulder. Smart move on the boy’s part, Tardif reflected. He sat down against the wall of the house and took up the papers he kept fastened to his chest at all times. 

Most bounty hunters would keep their contracts there, and he was no exception. He also had a contract. A pir of contracts even. One was a regular bounty hunter’s notice with an image, a name and then a large reward. The other contract was a long list of names. 

And on top of that list: The crime lord who had dared to cut Tardif out of his payment and also tried to have him killed. 

Key word: tried. Because Tardif was a professional manhunter and killer, and he never trusted anyone, least of all another killer. So when that cowardly wretch tried to stab Tardif in the throat, the bounty hunted had disarmed him and shoved his face into the campfire until he revealed who put him up to it. 

Turns out it had been their employer.

And now he was going to pay Tardif what he owed, with interest. 

Tardif nodded and put the list away. 

Time to shave a name off it. 

He stood up and went over to the dirty tavern the boy had scouted out for him. His mark would be sitting in the far corner from the door, and have three men with him. 

Not good odds, but not bad either, for someone like him. 

He kicked in the door and held up the original contract the crime lord had asked him to complete and slipped his left hand into a pocket. 

The Tavern silenced instantly. He felt every eye in the room on him, but four pairs mattered. The street urchin had been correct. The fucker who had tried to cheat him sat by a table in the back, seemingly unarmed. 

One of the other had a short sword at his side. The other two sat in a way that concealed their weapons… but they were on a sofa, meaning anything larger than daggers would have been taken off. 

His odds just improved. 

”What the- Kill that fucker!” The crime lord shouted and pointed with a fat, filthy finger. 

The three lackeys were on their feet in a heartbeat. Tardif waited for just a moment before he flicked the hand out of his pocket and threw three flashbang grenades. He saw one of the thugs avert his eyes, but the other two didn’t. 

The sound was sharper and louder than a thunderclap and for a moment the entire room bathed in light. Even he, who had a mask and had closed his eyes, saw a searing red through his eyelids when the grenades exploded. 

The tavern erupted in a panicked screaming. He heard patrons rushing from their chairs and run for the back door. He opened his eyes again. Smoke laid thick over the calamity, but he still saw the shadow approaching. He got up his axe in the blink of an eye and caught the rouge’s short sword on the handle. 

His enemy was lighter than he was, and the strike was sweeping rather than stabbing, meaning it only had the wight of the arm behind it, rather than the man’s whole body. Tardif stepped closer and swung his armored glove in a swift uppercut, nailing his assailant with a devastating blow. he could feel the jawbone fracture under his fist. The bandit screamed, although only a gurgle left his ruined throat. Tardif pushed him backward and grabbed his neck. Using the shaft of his axe as leverage, he pulled the bandit’s neck backwards and to the side in a lightning-quick motion. He heard the familiar ”pop” as it snapped, and the body went limp. 

”RRRRAAAH!” Another bandit roared and rushed at him with a dagger held above his head. Tardif snorted, far from impressed. He sidestepped the clumsy strike and whirled around with the axe, landing the blow expertly where the head joins the neck. 

He barely felt the blade bit into the tender neck. Just a small jerk in his hand was all that indicated the blade had gone through flesh.

He didn’t even spare the bandit a glance. Instead he removed his grappling hook and threw it expertly at the last bandit, who had just now recovered from the flashbang. He snagged the line around the bandi’s chest and pulled. His next victim yelped and looked up at him in confusion. Tardif drew back his armored glove and, at the perfect time, threw his punch to completely sunder the bandit’s throat. 

The third body thumped to the floor, and the tavern silenced. 

The crime lord remained behind his table, now shaking. Tardif stepped towards him, slowly.

”I’LL KILL YOU!” The crime lord screamed and heaved the entire table aside. Tardif dashed forward and swung with his axe. 

The crime lord got one last look of surprise on his face when he looked down and saw his opulent clothes were suddenly drenched in blood, and more continued to spout from the gush that had severed his windpipe. 

Tardif knew it took a few seconds before you died from beheading, as the blood in the brain had enough oxygen to survive for a little while.

But when those few seconds had passed, the crime lord fell backwards. 

Tardif stared callously at the body. Then he sat down next to it and grabbed onto the head. With a few well-aimed strikes of his armored glove, he managed to beat out most of the teeth. He put them in a small bag. Then he placed the contract the crime lord had given him on the body’s chest. 

The contract had stipulated the victim’s teeth as proof of the deed. The message would not be lost on anyone who read it.

Then he stood up, brushed of his clothes and went towards the door. He noticed the servant girl who crept out behind an overturned table, her face white and her hands shaking. She looked at him like he was the grim reaper himself. 

He stopped and looked back at her. 

”…”

Then he left the tavern and took out his list. Using a stick of coal, he crossed out the topmost name. He read the next one on the list, as if he didn’t have it all memorized. 

_Vvulf, the brigand._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know who you would like to see next!


	3. What Baldwin Left

Rosewater. 

It was a small blessing the disease had not taken his sense of smell, for he loved the scent of roses. It was soothing and inspiring. Beautiful as a sunset, yet every rose had it’s thorns, as they said. 

One could even say this rosewater had it’s thorns, for it was not meant for pleasure. No, the scent was made to conceal the fact that a large part of his body was filled with pus filled boils that smelled like death. His doctors had done what they could in cutting away the dead flesh, but their work was a precarious balancing act. They had to take as much as they could to make his life bearable, but so much would cripple him. 

At least after today they would have completed their service. There was just one last thing he needed their help with.

”My King,” The head physician said respectfully. ”Is this truly thine desire?”

”So it must be,” Baldwin answered evenly. ”This is for the best of the kingdom, and thus it is my duty.”

”I understand,” The physician conceded. ”But know that this humble soul will miss you like no other.”

”The same, my friend,” Baldwin offered the physician a smile. It was a balm for the king’s heart when he did not shy away from his horribly disfigured face. But the physician had been at Baldwin’s side every day for the decade the leprosy had done it’s terrible deed and was more accustomed to see him.

”You arm, your highness,” the physician asked. Baldwin complied. With practiced motions, the physician unwrapped the bandage around Baldwin’s arm. It felt strange. The disease had long since ruined his ability to feel pain, but the bandage still stuck to the wounds underneath. The physician placed the bandages inside the bowls of rosewater and then applied new, sparkling white bandages instead. White like new fallen snow. But in a few days the blood and puss would eat through the clean cloth and reveal his corruption yet again.

”My king… are you ready?”

That was his Majordomo. A discrete and incredibly skilled statesman, and the one Baldwin entrusted with his kingdom until an heir could be chosen. 

What could he say to such a man? 

Nothing more than what had already been said by leaving the kingdom to him. 

The physician had been entrusted with Baldwin’s health, but now, at the twilight of his reign, he trusted the Majordomo with his kingdom, his very soul. 

The majordomo placed three items before him. One was a quill and inkpot, the other was his last will and testament. It still needed his signature. Once it was signed, Baldwin would no longer be a king. 

The last item was a surprise.

A small tin flute. Few men knew of Baldwin’s secret musical interest, but the Majordomo did. And, ever the faithful servant and friend, he had taken upon himself to provide his king one last favor. Baldwin felt tears well up in his eyes in quiet thankfulness. He took the little flute and put it gingerly in his pocket. 

Then he signed his last will. He was now, in the eyes of the worldly justice, a dead man. 

The Majordomo withdrew the signed document. His hands were shaking.

”I am ready. Let this dead man not dwell longer among the living,” Baldwin said stilly. 

Careful, light hands lifted the crown from Baldwin’s brow. He felt the Majordomo quiver a little with emotion. 

Baldwin looked straight ahead. It was not his place to know where the crown was taken, or who was considered for it’s next owner. He was no longer a king. He was no longer alive.

He was but a dead man now. 

Another attendant held out a small cushion to him. Upon it laid a beautifully crafted leper’s mask, made to hide his hideous visage from the world. He let his hand brush over the cold metal surface. Then he took the mask and fastened it underneath the hood he wore. 

It felt… good. Cold on his pockmarked face. 

The Dead Man stood up and turned away from his physician and Majordomo. He heard them both retreat into the castle proper. They both had new duties to attend. He was no longer their concern. 

”Good bye, my friends,” The Dead Man whispered, his head bent in prayer. ”May the light bless your paths, wherever they may lead.”

Then he lifted his head and stepped towards the entrance of his castle. 

His honor guard had cleared a path for him to the castle gate, and behind their ordered lines stood a vast sea of humanity. His former subjects were here to see the Dead Man go. 

Petals of roses rained from the sky. Someone let out a flock of white doves as he appeared. With his head held high, the dead Man went slowly past the finest soldiers in the realm, and the faces in the crowd. Fishmongers and weavers, Noblemen and beggars, pickpockets and merchants, whores and knights. They had all come to see him leave. 

They were silent. Hardly a sound could be heard, aside from quiet sobbing. 

He could see the tears in the eyes of his guardsmen too, thought they remained perfectly still. They were soldiers, through and through, but their hearts were still those of living men. 

The Dead Man was thankful for his mask. He did not want his subjects to see how the tears ran from his own eyes too.

A faint scent of roses followed him when he stepped under the portcullis. The sea of humanity didn’t end behind his gate. They stretched all along his way down to the harbor. His last order as a king was that a ship was at his service to sail him up north. 

He had heard of a young lord of an ancient noble line. It was said his line had dabbled in the darkest of arts, and now sought repentance by cleansing his ancestor’s corruption. It was there, against the darkest horrors imaginable, that Baldwin aimed to find his death. 

He was not long for this world, but he would dedicate what time he had left to take as many enemies of the light with him to be judged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know who you would like to see next!


	4. When Boudica Cowered

The drums had quieted and the barrels of mead were dry. Boudica wiped some foam from her lips and smiled. Her body felt comfortably drunk, and comfortably strong. 

The body of a woman. She was twenty springs old now and set to complete the introduction to her clan’s circle of warriors. She knew how to care for her weapon, and make sure it was sharpened. She had learnt how to enter the _ulfserk_ , the wolf’s shape, and fight with manic ferocity. She could mend clothing and cook hearty meals. Her monthly bleedings signified her fertility. There was but one thing left for her to do. 

She had killed a wolf, to show her cunning.

She had killed a lynx, to prove her tracking skills.

She had killed a bear, to show her strength. 

She had killed an eagle to show her speed. 

And tonight, she was going to kill a man, to offer his soul to her ancestor spirits, that they knew she would stop at nothing to defend her tribe. 

She smiled and removed a sharpening stone from a small pouch by her waist. Her glaive was already sharper than an eagle’s beak, but she needed to do something with her hands.

The other warriors sat nearby. Some chanted, preparing to bring forth the ulfserk, while others were up on the small ridge, keeping an eye out for the convoy they were going to hit. Tonight, the tribe would feast. The loot from this raid was going to honor the spirits. 

Boudica had decided that she was going to capture one of them alive. She wanted her own thrall to help her with the boring or tedious tasks of her new life as a woman grown. 

”Here they come,” one of the lookouts said quietly. 

Boudica stood up. ”I offer this victory to the spirits!” she said and thumped her chest. 

The other warriors picked up their weapons and ended their chants. The archers nocked their bows. The lookout held out a hand and started counting down the fingers. Boudica felt the thrill of the hunt come over her. 

The lookout lowered his last finger, and the warriors around her surged forward, caking her backwards in their eagerness to get to their enemy. They howled like wolves or growled like bears as they spilled from their campsite. 

A few were completely silent, rushing forward like the lynxes they invoked. 

Boudica crawled up, grabbed her glaive and rushed after the band. Hopefully there’d still be a thrall for her to capture for herself. She crested the small ridge. 

This… was nothing like her hunts. 

Her steps slowed. Her heart began to hammer faster in her chest. She felt her legs and hands shake. She grabbed on harder to her glaive. 

The convoy guards were many, and they all wore plate mail. The screams were nothing like the animal’s dying gasps. They were screaming in pain! Everybody was! One of her tribesmen failed to block a sword strike and the armored beast he was facing slashed his belly open. The entrails spilled to the ground and Boudica felt like she could hear the wet ”splat”. She held her glaive closer to her body as if to protect herself. 

She knew she had to rush forward, knew she had to help them. But her feet felt like rooted to the ground. She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to see anymore, but her eyes felt like nailed to the brutal slaughter beneath the ridge. 

One of her friends got her arm cut of and screamed like a stricken pig. Boudica could never have imagined a human could make that sound. Her assailant grabbed her by the throat, threw her onto the ground and kicked her in the stomach. Then he kicked again, and again, and again. Every time her voice got a little smaller, until the crunch of bones was the only sound she made.

Boudica tasted bile on her tongue. 

Orm, one of the oldest and most respected warriors dueled with a true gigant of a man, He had lost his sword and was fighting the gigant unarmed, grappling with the attacker’s glaive. 

With Herculean strength the attacker struck Orm in the chest, sending the older man reeling and spinning. 

Spinning, so his eyes landed on her.

She could see his face twist into a downright demonic visage of fury. His enemy forgotten, he rightened himself and pointed at her. ”THE SPIRITS SEE YOU, BOUDICA!”

The assailant silenced him. He swung the glaive with such force it cleaved Orm in two.

Boudica felt something wet on her thigh. The rancid smell of urine hit ner nose. She had peed herself in fear. 

THE SPIRITS SEE YOU, BOUDICA!

Her legs no longer supported her. She collapsed to the ground and huddled by a tree, clutching her head desperately to try and get the ringing words out of her skull. She cried in terror, her entire body heaving with every sob that left her lips.

She sat like that for a long time… probably. She couldn’t say. 

But when she came too, the forest was quiet aside from the caws of the ravens who had found the battleground. Boudica peeked forward from behind her tree like a little rabbit peeking out from its den. 

The convoy had left the bodies were they were, and the road still looked slick in the faint moonlight.

THE SPIRITS SEE YOU, BOUDICA!

She choked on her tears and returned to behind her tree. But it wouldn’t help. The spirits saw her wherever she went. The next time she fell asleep, they’d send a wolf or a wolverine to kill her and drag her to them… and she’d be judged to spend eternity being eaten and strangled in the _Naströnd_ of the netherworld. 

No glorious paradise awaited her now. 

Or… Boudica suddenly remembered. 

There was one place… a place far to the West, where the lands yielded to the endless waters. A forest infested with blight. A corrupted land where even the spirits feared to go.

Boudica hiccuped in terror and then scrambled down from the ridge. She ran along the road to the West. She could not stop to sleep, or the spirits would take her. 

And she knew she was not brave enough to face them. 

She was not a woman. She was not even fit to be a thrall. 

In her chest beat the heart of a coward, and a coward was all she was.

A coward on the run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know who you would like to see next!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know who you would want to see next!


End file.
